


The Application of Practical Psychology

by Siria



Category: Cupid (TV 1998)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-28
Updated: 2008-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her first year in college, Claire roomed with a New Yorker. Despite her name, there was nothing about Jane that was plain—she was tall and angular, with a mass of pink, permed hair and a tendency to snap her gum while she talked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Application of Practical Psychology

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jenn for betaing!

Her first year in college, Claire roomed with a New Yorker. Despite her name, there was nothing about Jane that was plain—she was tall and angular, with a mass of pink, permed hair and a tendency to snap her gum while she talked.

"Come on," Jane'd said, pulling on her leg warmers and wriggling into the faded denim jacket she wore everywhere. "Claire, live a little. We're in LA, there's a party, and you're sitting there reading what?" She flicked the page Claire was turning with the tip of one bright green fingernail. "Some dead white guy."

"Freud, actually," Claire mumbled around the pencil clenched between her teeth. "And I wasn't invited to any party."

"Yeah, me neither. But we're in the middle of a couple thousand other freshmen. It's a _sea_ of hormones and beer out there—bound to be a party nearby. I can guarantee it. And I can guarantee a lot of fun." She bounced down onto the foot of Claire's bed and favoured her with a broad grin.

Claire looked up with an exasperated sigh. "I have a paper due next week. So, you know, you have fun, I'll just—"

"Sure," Jane said, rolling her eyes, clearly horrified at the existence of such a thing as a _work ethic_. "Whatever. See you in the morning, Allen."

Which had pretty much set the pattern for the rest of the year: Jane slipping in and out of the room at all hours on silent feet, while Claire learnt the art of power-napping at her desk and worked out which part of the library was equidistant from all her most frequently used resources. Even after Jane changed her major from pre-med to drama to creative writing, before transferring north to Berkeley to be nearer to the current boyfriend of the week, Claire had stuck with her pattern.

"Consistency," she stressed to Trevor at that week's group meeting. "I'm not saying that spontaneity can't have its place within a properly regulated lifestyle, but consistency is absolutely the hallmark of a stable, mature personality and necessary for a healthy relationship."

"Uh huh," Trevor said, "Well, all I'm saying is that _spanking_ can definitely have a place within a well-regulated lifestyle. Huh? Am I right?", grinning in anticipation of the response he was sure that would get out of the group; and because Claire was a professional, and because she was sitting at the head of a room full of people who looked to her for an example, she resolutely didn't clap her hands over her ears and scream.

****

Since first setting up practice in Chicago, Claire's office hours had been regular: ten to four thirty, Monday to Friday, ten to one on Saturdays, which left an easy hour on either side for paperwork and phone calls (and, lately, for arranging bail bonds for Trevor). Sure, over time, her workday proper had grown a little longer, with late weekday evenings and long Saturday afternoons spent at her desk ensuring that she met the demands of an ever-spiralling bureaucracy, or working on her next column: but Claire had always taken satisfaction from the certainty that her patients were well-served while her professional reputation grew ever stronger.

That the Starbucks across the street from her building did excellent business thanks to her was probably not of comfort to her bank balance, but Claire was woman enough to admit that she had something of a caffeine dependence, and from three to three fifteen each Saturday, she could reliably be found relieving her friendly neighbourhood barista of one white chocolate and raspberry muffin and one venti Pumpkin Spice Latte, whole milk, whipped cream, triple shot of espresso. She savoured the steam rising from the cup as she trotted back up the stairs to her floor, anticipating the moment when she'd sit down at her desk, kick off her heels and take that first, satisfying mouthful—there were few other things which compensated adequately for a crisp fall afternoon spent inside her office.

Which made it all the more disappointing when Claire let herself in, saw someone behind her desk, yelped, and sent both coffee and muffin flying. One full venti Pumpkin Spice Latte, whole milk, whipped cream, triple shot of espresso lay puddled at her feet. "_Alex_," she gasped, when her jaw felt capable of working again, and her heartbeat had recovered from the syncopated jolt that surprise had given it. "What on earth are you—"

"It's three twenty seven on a Saturday afternoon," Alex said, all amiable affability. His hands were joined neatly on the red-sweater-covered line of his stomach, and the gaze behind his glasses was sharp. "The Cubs are in the playoffs, it's 68 and sunny outside, I've got the weekend off, and instead of you coming with me to Wrigley Field, you're in here working on..." He paused to peer at her laptop screen. "Double-checking your tax code compliance. Couple months ahead of schedule."

"Alex..." Claire sighed and stepped gingerly out of the puddle of swiftly cooling coffee. "We've been through this before, how many times have I.... God, I don't know if there's even a mop around here, a janitor's closet, I—"

"Claire." Alex pushed back the desk chair and walked over to stand in front of her. "It's the weekend. I'm free. There's nothing here that can't wait. Why can't we just... go somewhere, do something that's not _scheduled_."

"Alex." Claire resisted the urge to rub at her forehead. "Look, I have a list of things I was planning to do today, things I _promised_ I would do, and it would be incredibly irresponsible of me if I—"

Alex leaned in and kissed her, one hand coming up to tangle in the thick hair at the nape of her neck, the other tugging her hand to rest on his hip. Claire felt her hand close there involuntarily: body made to curve by the feel of denim and wool and the promise of warm skin against her palm, by the way Alex kissed her, as always, with the full measure of his presence, of his self. There was a solidity to it, a sense that this would endure, and by the time Alex pulled back, just a little, Claire's eyes had drooped half-closed and her breath was coming just a little faster.

"We're in my office," she whispered, uncertain as to why intimacy was suddenly demanding secrecy from her, but knowing that it would be a bad idea to go any further here. For some reason, it would be a bad idea to go any further... but god, the curve of his neck.

He grinned at her, said _I'd noticed_ with an air of utter unconcern; pulled off his glasses and tossed them behind him onto her desk. And this time, this time when he kissed her, it was hotter and deeper—his teeth nipping at the curve of her lower lip, the curl of his tongue making her shiver—and Claire stood there in coffee-stained shoes and late September sunlight and felt all the long and fine bones of her body ache for the want of him. Alex swayed into her, a pendulum keeping time with the pulse of her blood, and when Claire murmured, "Weekend. You haven't shaved," her voice cracked, her words were indistinct.

"Uh huh," he said, the edge of his smile wicked—then lifted and turned her, so quick she barely had time to widen her eyes in surprise before he set her down on the edge of her desk and knelt in front of her. The creak of the floorboard was shockingly loud in the afternoon stillness, and Claire shot a nervous look at the door, which was still ajar—easy access for receptionist, or cleaner, or distressed patient, or horror of horrors, Trevor. Anyone could walk in on them like this, and Claire could feel how hard her nipples were against the scratchy lace of her bra and the smooth silk of her blouse, and Alex was on his knees in front of her.

"We shouldn't," she managed. "_Alex_."

If he'd stayed like that, she might have been able to manage a speech about responsibility, boundaries, work-life balance, how respecting the integrity of routine and habit was vital to the smooth functioning of a relationship. But he had to cock his head to one side, and smirk, and say _stubble_, before he pushed her skirt up to pool around her thighs and ran one rough-smooth cheek up the inside of her thigh.

"Oh my god," Claire gasped, words tumbling out on the flood of her breath. Alex looked up at her, one eyebrow arched, and... oh, what the hell. "Carry on," she said, as imperious as she could manage, and let her hips nudge forward, pressed herself into his touch.

Another caress of his cheek against skin that was growing flushed, sensitised by the rasp of stubble, and when Claire shivered, Alex reached up with one hand to tug her panties to one side. She felt his breath, and then his tongue, and there Claire was: sitting on the desk in her office, still sensibly dressed from a morning's meetings with clients, her skirt rucked up around her waist and day planner pressing against her ass while Alex made her moan and her glasses slowly came askew.

Claire grasped hold of the edge of the desk with one hand, let the bite of the hard wood against her palm ground her while she let the fingers of her other hand twine in Alex's dark hair. He liked that, liked when she tugged on the fine strands a little, showed him the pace she wanted: his lashes were charcoal smudges against his cheeks, his free hand was pressed between his legs, and he went faster or slower, just as she wanted. The moans he made were hoarse, the curl of his tongue wicked against her, and there was a hint of slyness in the way he kept licking while she shook her way through her orgasm, not pausing even when Claire squirmed and panted that it was too much, _too much._

Sly and _certain_, arrogant, cocky, journalist-ego _bastard_ because he kept going even though she was already lit up for him: didn't let the pleasure fade, but slid two fingers up inside them and crooked them just as he sucked on her clit, and by the time Claire's eyes had stopped rolling back in her head, she'd slithered off the desk to land in his lap. Her arms somehow, independent of direction from her now non-functional brain, would themselves around Alex, and Claire leaned into him, kissing her taste from his lips, half-words dropping from one to the other—little murmurs of encouragement and arrangement and affection.

She could feel him, hard through his jeans, and Claire reached between them for the buttons of his fly, despite all her best judgement wanting nothing more than for him to be inside her right now—but got no further than flicking open the first one before Alex's hand clasped her wrist and stopped her. Claire absolutely didn't make a noise like a whine: not when Alex hauled them both to their feet, not when he tugged her damp, slightly-ripped panties back up and smoothed her skirt back down, not even when he kissed her forehead in a disappointingly chaste manner before taking a step back.

"Alex," Claire said, resettling her glasses on her nose and crossing her arms in what she hoped was a professional manner, "Would you mind telling me what, exactly, it is that you're doing?"

"Well," Alex said, retrieving his own glasses and putting them back on. With his hair rumpled from her hands, and the glasses' thick black frames, he had the air of a debauched academic—albeit one whose pants displayed an entirely unscholarly bulge. "You have pressing tax compliance matters to take care of, and _I'm_ going to go home and work on chapter three. I've been reliably informed by my editor that it's kind of awful." His mouth twisted into the kind of just-petulant-enough pout that made him look startlingly like a kicked puppy.

Claire felt her eyes narrow. "Have you been talking to Trevor? You have, haven't you? Because if this is about that, that spanking thing the other night, I am going to—"

Alex held up his hands in a show of innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about, honey. Honest. I'm just going to go thataway," he pointed at the door, "you take all the time you need."

"_Alexander DeMouy_," Claire began, in that tone of voice she'd come to use almost exclusively for Trevor, but Alex derailed her argument again by kissing her again, briefly, so sharp and sweet it made her heart ache.

"See?" he said when he pulled away. "Spontaneity. Next time, fresh air. I promise."

His smile was probably illegal in several of the more conservative states, and Claire was vaguely aware that her mouth was gaping a little: too many thoughts of Alex and dappled sunlight, grass trampled by the press of eager bodies, soil under her fingernails and Alex under her mouth.

Alex was halfway down the corridor by the time Claire's brain flicked back on. She blinked, looked back at her laptop screen, where the IRS website was still displayed in all its labyrinthine glory, and decided that she could entirely rationalise what she was about to do by saying that every mature relationship needed compromise, discussion, and an ability to consider changing even the most entrenched of positions. She grabbed her keys and her purse and took off after Alex: the door closed firmly behind her this time, rules abandoned all uncaring behind her because there would be fall sunshine outside, and the feel of Alex's hand in hers.


End file.
